


Wool

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 19:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8173823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Once, one of Maedhros’ tunics might’ve been a suitable dress for Fingon.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Maedhros is halfway out of his armour by the time he reaches his room and has his gauntlets ready to lay on the table. He notes Fingon on his bed, lounging against the wall with an open book, and continues on to deal with his boots—Fingon, thankfully, is no longer so uncommon in these quarters. It isn’t until he’s down to just his tunic and breeches that he properly _looks_ at his cousin and muses with a smile, “What are you wearing?”

The question is rhetorical. Maedhros can see well enough his own sweater, draping lazily over one of Fingon’s pale shoulders and bunching around his waist, hiding his lap. His legs are sinfully bare, folded to deprive Maedhros of a better view. As far as Maedhros can tell, Fingon is wearing nothing else. 

In lieu of answering, Fingon sighs, “Do you remember the days when I could wear your tunics as robes?” When he looks up, connecting them, his eyes have a wistful hue to them. Maedhros could never forget. Fingon hasn’t raided his closet since Valinor, but it was always a welcome sight. 

He chuckles at the memory and chides, “You are not so much shorter anymore, my Findekáno.” 

“I was never short,” Fingon counters swiftly, “you are just inordinately tall.”

“And it is such a shame,” Maedhros sighs, “for I, unlike some people, must always wear bottoms with my tops.” He makes a point of eyeing the lean lines of Fingon’s legs, so wantonly on display. Fingon tilts his head and shifts his body ever so slightly, elongating one ankle out and thighs parting, portending of greater things. Maedhros watches the movement with mounting interest.

Fingon purrs, “Not in any place you share with me, Nelyo. Here, I assure you, your clothes are entirely optional.”

Maedhros would laugh, but the mood is different. He steps forward instead, coming to weigh down the mattress with one knee. He admits as he crawls closer, “How endearing you look like this...” Fingon’s beautiful mouth broadens in a thin smile. His almond eyes trace Maedhros’ lips, but his hands stay on his book, now resting in his lap. Maedhros is the one to position them close, to sidle right up, his knees digging under Fingon’s. He’d missed this: seeing Fingon in his things. This sweater is an old one, as red as Maedhros’ hair, appearing brighter against the pitch-black strands that tumble over Fingon’s shoulders, one single section pleated in the usual golden ribbon. Fingon’s a vision in anything. But in a reminder that he is _Maedhros’_...

“You were taken from me once,” Fingon murmurs, the sudden sadness in his eyes belaying his grin. His voice lowers to a whisper for the rest: “Now I keep everything of yours I can, so you are never far from me.”

Maedhros has no words for that. He’s thanked Fingon so many times, but it’s never enough. And then he thinks of when he _removed himself_ , when he let his father burn those ships, and he wonders what he ever did to deserve this wonderful creature still in his life. He lets actions speak for him and leans forward to brush his lips over Fingon’s. He can feel the depression dissipate as he pushes harder, insisting that _this_ be all they think about. Fingon rises back to meet him. It’s still as potent as the first kiss they ever shared.

When they finish, Fingon threads one hand into Maedhros’ hair, tugs at the messy strands, and hums, “I think I would like to see you in only one of my articles.”

Maedhros glances pointedly at the wardrobe in the corner and asks, “Which would you have me wear?”

Fingon retracts his fingers from Maedhros’ hair. He instead moves to his own, both hands now busily untwist the ribbon tied there. He holds it out afterwards, announcing, “This.”

Maedhros laughs. But he obliges, of course—could never resist his Fingon. He straightens out to pull his tunic over his head, tossing it lazily aside and leaning forward to let Fingon tie it where he will. Fingon reaches to wrap it loosely around Maedhros’ throat, fastening it in the front with a little bow that makes Maedhros feel like some sort of present. Fingon deserves better, but he looks pleased with his gift.

He pulls Maedhros to him by a finger crooked into that collar, and they resume their kiss, this time with enough force to knock each other down into the mattress, where they tumble about like the careless, love-stricken youths they haven’t been in ages.


End file.
